


The Alibi Talent Show

by orphan_account



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Clingy Ian, Dancing, Fluff and Humor, Ian is hot when he dances, M/M, Michael Jackson - Freeform, Mickey can't get enough of Ian as MJ, Talent Shows, mickey being mickey, the alibi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-02 03:33:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13309542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Ian picks up a flyer outside the Alibi, it's for a goddamn talent show...





	The Alibi Talent Show

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little idea that popped into my head :D

Mickey cracks his knuckles as he takes the Milkovich front steps two at a time. “Fuck,” he yells for good measure, kicking the door open. He’d just had a downright shitty day, looking for work. Legitimate work, no less, because Ian wanted him to do something that “won’t land you in prison and have me jerking off and visiting your ass for the next ten years”.

And as it turns out, not many people are willing to hire someone who has absolutely zero skills past smashing things with his fists and shooting shit up. Whatever. He needs a beer and some peace and quiet.

Mickey walks into the living room only to find the TV blasting something that sounds vaguely familiar and his boyfriend – yeah, his _boyfriend_. Fucking shoot him! – watching it intently in nothing but his boxers.

“What the fuck is going on here?” he asks, grabbing a can of Old Style and popping it open. Fucking gross. It’ll have to do though. They’re practically broke.

Ian doesn’t take his eyes off the TV as he tosses a flyer in Mickey’s direction.

“Fuck’s this?” the older boy asks, not bothering to read the paper.

“Read it.” Ian still doesn’t look at him.

“Hello! I just came home. What’s going on with you?”

Ian finally pauses the TV and slowly turns to look at him. “Read the paper, Mick.”

He looks down and finds this:

**_Inaugural Alibi Talent Show_ **

**Have a secret talent you wish to showcase? Here’s your chance!**

**$500 prize money + free drinks for a month**

**$5 entry**

**August 23**

**7:00 at the Alibi Room**

Mickey’s eyebrows climb higher and higher until he reaches the end of the page (some shitty motivational quote by someone he’s never heard of) and he turns to Ian. “So?”

“So I’m gonna enter.”

“And that explains why you’re in your fucking underwear staring at the goddamn TV at 5 o’clock on a Tuesday?”

“I’m studying MJ’s moves.”

“The fuck are you studying MJ for? You gonna dunk a ball a couple times or something? I know you’re taller than me but you’re not a fucking giant! Do you even play basketball?!?!

Ian just looks at him with a  knowing smile. “Not that MJ, Mick. The other one.”

“Wacko Jacko, huh? What are you studying that freak for?”

“I’m gonna dance,” Ian says, turning back to the screen as though that settles it.

“Alright, and why you in your boxers?”

“Because to quote you, it’s hot as balls. Why are you complaining anyway? Unless you want me to take them off…?” Ian smirks, shimmying to the music. Fuck. It _is_ hot as balls and it just got a little hotter.

Mickey flops down on the couch beside him and watches a few seconds of one of those weird-ass music videos that Ian’s got on. “Alright, alright… How you gonna impersonate him with your orange ass, huh?”

“Not a problem, Mick. I can dye my hair, or I can just be a new and improved redheaded version.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright. So let’s see some moves…” Mickey presses, getting into it. Damn, if Ian isn’t hot when he dances. And there ain’t a whole club-full of pruney queens here to ogle him so that’s a plus.

Ian blushes, suddenly shy. “I don’t know. I just started watching these, trying to see what the hell he does. He’s fucking good.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Jesus! Of course, he’s fucking good! He’s Michael!”

“Well, I think I can do it,” Ian says, almost defensively.

“Hey, you don’t gotta tell me. Pretty sure you already have the crotch-grab down pat from your club days.”

“Oh yeah…Wanna see?” Ian smirks getting up and rolling his hips for a bit. Fuck. Everything about this guy gets Mickey going. It’s fucking embarrassing how little it takes. Ian’s hair is longer than it’s ever been and these days it seems like there are always a few ginger strands dangling over his eyes, so goddamn perfectly. His abs and pecs are just as good as ever, despite the meds and all their side effects. Yeah, he gained some weight, but he only looks better for it.

“Hey, when you finish gawking can you help me get a costume together?” Ian interrupts his musings, only to palm his dick a moment later, his hips undulating to the music. No, Mickey’s not looking away now.

He bites his lip, feeling his own dick coming alive and making no move to hide it. After another ten seconds, Ian stops moving, causing Mickey to snap out of his trance. “Uh…yeah. Yeah, I’ll help you get a costume together. Whatchya’ going for?”

“The Billie Jean get-up. You know, black jacket, the hat, white t-shirt…”

“Uh-huh…” Mickey nods distractedly, his gaze still on Ian’s crotch where the outline of his pretty-fucking-large dick lies.

Ian rolls his eyes and then moves into Mickey’s space, backing him up against a wall. “Lemme take care of this,” he mutters, palming Mickey’s hard-on as he drops to his knees. He doesn’t bother with the zipper, just wrenches the older guy’s jeans down a few inches and then finally, thankfully, his mouth is on Mickey’s throbbing length.

Mickey leans his head back against the wall as his hands make their way like they always do to Ian’s hair, needing something to hold on to. Fuck, this never gets old. A few well placed tongue-swirls later, and he’s coming as the redhead looks up at him, the most insolent expression on his face.

“You’re a horny little bitch, you know?” he says once Mickey’s straightened himself out.

“Fuck off. Like you’re any better,” Mickey scoffs, whipping out a cigarette and lighting it. This day is quickly getting a lot better. “Who’s the one who needs a blowjob every fucking morning like clockwork, huh?”

“That would be me,” Ian smiles, grabbing the cigarette out of Mickey’s mouth and taking a long drag. It’s true. He’s always horny when he wakes up and Mickey’s never in the mood then so the brunette ends up blowing him most mornings.

Mickey laughs, watching Ian’s lips pucker up as he slowly blows out a ring of smoke. A sudden urge overcomes him and he grabs Ian around the neck, planting a hard kiss on his forehead, leaving the redhead looking a little surprised but pleasantly so.

“What was that for?”

Mickey just shrugs, one eyebrow going up. “Fuck if I know. Just felt like it.”

 

* * *

 

“Everything okay with you and Ian?”

Mickey spins away from the pasta cooking on the stovetop to glare at Fiona. “What?! Did he say something about me?”

“Jesus! No.” Fiona puts her hands up, trying to block out Mickey’s piercing glare. “I just noticed how lately you spend every afternoon here and he’s nowhere to be seen.”

“Oh…that’s it?” Mickey seems relieved and Fiona nods, glad that she doesn’t have to be the bearer of bad news between her brother and his joined-at-the-hip boyfriend. She’s waiting for an explanation but Mickey just turns back around and stirs the pot of spaghetti. It’s both weird and entirely too familiar to see Mickey hovering over the stove, cooking. During the first two months of Ian’s diagnosis, he barely left the Gallagher house, spending most of his time glued to Ian’s side. But he’d also cook, and even clean occasionally, trying to help out and get his mind off his sick boyfriend. The last few days, though, has him back in the same position and it’s a little disconcerting.

“It’s weird to see either of you without the other, you know?” Fiona comments, trying to engage the grumpy guy in her kitchen but all she gets is a noncommittal hum in return. Trying to get information out of Mickey is a lot like pulling teeth. “Everything okay with him? He’s doing good?”

“Yeah, he’s good.”

Well, that explains everything.

“We’re eating here tonight,” Mickey offers up, still not looking at her. “So you can see for yourself.”

Fiona just throws up her arms at this point. “So, whenever you’re ready, an explanation would be nice…”

“What? You got a problem with me being here?” Mickey says, finally turning back around, an impish grin on his face.

“No, I’m just wondering what the fuck is going on! You know you can be a little more helpful!”

“Hey, relax. He’s just practicing for that Alibi thing on Friday. You know…” he adds, seeing Fiona’s blank expression. “That Michael Jackson shit. And I’ve heard enough about Annie and whoever the fuck else to last me a lifetime. Just had to get out of the goddamn house and I didn’t hear you complaining about me taking care of dinner these last few nights.”

“Oh, please! What, mac-n-cheese?” Fiona says challengingly, hands on her hips. “Lasagna? Liam could make that!”

“What? You really think you’re a better cook than me?” Mickey questions, raising an eyebrow and waving a mixing spoon in Fiona’s face. “I’ve been feeding myself since I was like seven years old!”

“Oh yeah?” Fiona retorts, a smile starting to creep over her face.Two can play this game. Although, if she actually thinks about it, it’s kinda sad that they’re trying to one-up each other on when they had to start fending for themselves. “Well, I’ve been feeding this whole family since I was six years old!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah….” Mickey waves her off, a knowing grin, spreading across his face. “I’ve heard plenty from Ian about the quality of the food around here.”

“Oh really?! And what’s that?” Fiona tries not to let her indignance show but does a pretty bad job of it.

“Enough to know that the real cook around here is Debs and not you.”

Fiona just shakes her head. “Oh, so now she’s ‘Debs’? Not Rageddy Anne or…or Little Red Riding Hood, huh?”

Mickey shrugs, flashing another shit-eating grin. “Comes by our place a lot and makes us shit. Goes a long way in making me like someone.”

“If you’re such a great cook, why does she make you stuff?” Fiona retorts hotly, flipping her hair and feeling like she’s scored a point. She doesn’t know why, but the need to thwart Mickey is suddenly very strong. Probably something to do with that grating, swaggering expression on the guy’s face. “Wouldn’t you have that covered?”

“Ay, listen, you wanna settle this?” Mickey asks, putting down the spoon and rubbing his hands together, suddenly all business. “We can have some kinda cook-off. Rest of you Gallaghers can judge.”

“Oh please,” Fiona scoffs. “I’d kick your ass.”

Mickey just chuckles at this, not looking the least bit threatened. “Bitch, you wish.”

Just then, the back door crashes open and Ian and Debbie come in, both blasting out awful choruses of _Bad_ at the top of their lungs. Mickey groans loudly. He’d specifically come here to escape this shit.

“Ian’s gonna kill it!” Debbie says breathlessly, grabbing a Gatorade from the fridge and downing half of it in one gulp. “He’s getting really good.”

“Hey, that’s my shit,” Mickey objects without any real conviction. He’s been around enough to know that stashing something in the Gallagher refrigerator is akin to putting it out on the curb with a sign that reads ‘help yourself’.

“Yeah, whatever,” Debbie says, handing the rest of the bottle to him without screwing the cap back on. He doesn’t even glare at her. When did he become such a sucker?

“Rachael Ray here and I are gonna have a cook-off,” Mickey blurts out, receiving a glare from Fiona in response. “What? You backing out now?”

“Hang on! What’s this about?” Ian interjects, wrapping his arms around Mickey to stir the pasta and getting all up in his boyfriend’s space.

“Clingy bastards,” Debbie mutters trying to maintain a straight face and earning herself a scowl from Mickey.

“Watch it, Strawberry Shortcake!”

“Or what, Machine Gun Kelly?” Debbie counters, unable to hide her smirk any longer. “You know it’s kind of hard to take you seriously with my brother always hanging off your back.”

“My favorite place to be,” Ian shrugs, nuzzling his face in the back of Mickey’s neck.

“Tell me that wasn’t some kind of sexual innuendo…” Fiona sighs, trying to hide the amusement in her voice.

“You better watch it, Red! And you! You’re not getting out of this!” Mickey says harshly, turning on Fiona and trying to maintain a shred of dignity in front of all these fucking Gallaghers.

“Hey, I’m not a criminal who has long afternoons to spend doing fuck knows what!”

Mickey shakes his head in disbelief, trying to ignore Ian kissing his neck. That shit always turns him on. “Oh please! It’s the fucking summer? Don’t tell me you’re pulling twelve-hour-shifts or something? We can do it at night.”

“You know what… Fine!” Fiona yells, throwing up her hands. “You’re on, _Gordon Ramsay_! But we’re waiting for after this talent show thing to do it.”

“Deal,” Mickey smirks, shrugging Ian off him. Guy gets fucking handsy sometimes. “How’s the costume coming along?”

“Really good.” Ian gives up trying to get all over him and hops up on the counter, swinging his legs in Mickey’s space instead. “I got this awesome sparkly jacket from Vee and tied a white strip on the arm, it looks really good. You wouldn’t believe what she’s got in her closet! Some of the weirdest shit I’ve ever seen. Half the stuff, I can’t tell if they’re sex shit or actual clothes.”

Mickey looks a little disturbed at this bit of info, but Fiona just laughs. She’s well acquainted with the contents of Vee’s closet.

“And, we still had a hat from our suitcases…” Ian continues. ”Now all I need are some shoes and a white glove. Got a pair of Carl’s pants that should do the trick.”

“I think I have a glove somewhere,” Debbie chimes in. “From a while ago. It might be too small, but…whatever. It should do.” She’s been helping Ian out a lot the last week.

“Well, there you go!” Ian laughs hopping down off the counter and following Debs upstairs.

“You’re sure he’s okay?” Fiona asks, glancing after him. “He seems a little…hyper.”

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees. “He ain’t allowed to have moods? He’s fine, I swear. He’s just fucking excited.”

 

* * *

 

The Alibi is packed. Not, It’s-Friday-night-and-they-just-handed-out-paychecks-at-the-meat-packing-plant packed but packed as in, it’s-fucking-impossible-to-move-without-bumping-into-someone packed. Mickey slips behind the bar, but even back here it’s fucking crowded. Apparently, these promotional nights fucking work. He’s never seen the bar with so many people in it.

“Mick, my man, how’s life treating you?”

Mickey spins around (well, slowly elbows enough people to be able to turn around in place) only to find himself face-to-face with none other than that hipster. The guy thinks he’s his fucking best friend, calling him ‘fam’ and everything, it’s unbelievable. No one even knows his name. One day the bar was normal, the next day the hipsters invaded, led by this prick. He’s known simply as The Alibi Hipster. Mickey thinks he looks like some Duck Dynasty fuck.

“Fuck you want, Lumberjack?!” he yells over all the sound. The first time he saw the guy, he gave his beard a hearty yank, shocked when it didn’t come off. The guy had found it fucking hilarious and had invited him for a cup of “Shangri-la” or some shit. Overall though, he found them to be a pretty affable bunch, especially since they were very willing to share their grade-A weed.

“Ah, your boy’s gonna do something tonight, huh?” The guy winks at him knowingly. That’s the other thing; guy finds the idea of a ghetto gay couple absolutely captivating and treats Ian and him like some exotic animal that’s on the brink of extinction.

Mickey flips him off. “Whatever, man. Fuck off!”

The Hipster just grins at him, winks again, and disappears into the crowd. He’s also heard from Svetlana that they pay about triple for everything and love when you’re nasty to them. These fucktwats are really insane.

Whatever. Where’s Ian, anyway? The acts have been going on for quite a while already. They mostly sucked, besides for this chick he recognized from the local 7/11 who could fucking play the violin and some hipster who could beat-box. Otherwise, unimpressive as fuck.

And now Tommy’s trying to rap. Fucking hell, he doesn’t need to see (or hear) this shit! He’s just here for Ian. Mickey hasn’t even seen him do his thing for real, he’d been staying away for a week already. Apparently, he made Ian nervous, whatever the fuck that meant.

 Suddenly a couple of hands grab his waist from behind. He knows it’s Ian before he even turns, there’s no mistaking the feel of those hands on his waist.

“Wish me luck!” Ian calls out, grinning like an idiot. “I’m up in two spots, gotta go change.”

“Yeah, just keep grabbing your dick and you’re sure to win,” Mickey huffs, not entirely thrilled.

“Oh come on Mick! This isn’t the Fairy Tale.”

“Fine,” Mickey acquiesces. “Good luck. That enough for you, Firecrotch?”

Ian nods, pleased with the old nickname. Then he disappears into the crowd. Mickey decides to go take a look at who the judges are, because why the fuck not?

He glares and shoves his way through the crowd to the little table with three folks at it; one of them is Svetlana, wearing fucking glasses as if this is serious shit, another is one of those Alibi regulars who he has nothing to do with, and then there he is; the Alibi Hipster! What the fuck?

The next act is up; a couple women doing some crazy-ass dance that he assumes he’s supposed to be finding sexy but which he really needs to look away from. The music sucks too.

Mickey heads off, looking for a good spot to settle in to watch Ian.  He makes for the bar and hoists himself up on the counter, rueing the day he was made so fucking short. He still can barely see over anyone, even sitting up here, so he gets up on his knees and finally he can see the stage/clearing. No sooner has he discovered his little spot, that Carl and Debbie scramble on to the bar-top on either side of him. Ha, they’re short fuckers too!

Too fast, the chicks finish up and then Ian appears. Holy fuck! He’s fucking hot! He starts doing these weird-ass stuff that Mickey has no idea about, with a suitcase and the hat and the glove, but everyone’s suddenly going nuts so he figures it must be some trademark MJ move. Yeah, that guy was fucking insane. But Ian…

Ian looks good. Maybe because everything is so goddamn tight or maybe because he always looks fucking good: He’s wearing a v-neck white undershirt which Mickey always finds him hot in, especially since you can always see his nipples, the fucking tightest pair of black pants which Mickey has no idea how he’s gonna dance in, and some sparkly black jacket, that yeah, looks like it’s straight out of Vee’s wardrobe. But his hair is also fucking amazing. It’s really long and slicked back and it looks like it’s flaming somehow and Jesus! Mickey just wants to run his hands through it.

The glove is now on, the hat secure and Ian’s just standing there, bent over, waiting. And then the opening chords to _Billie Jean_ boom out and he’s moving, grabbing his fucking fire crotch, his hip rippling to the music, and if everyone was going nuts before, they’re now losing their fucking minds. Mickey swears the bar actually shakes.

Debbie and Carl are beaming and yelling like fucking idiots beside him but he just sits back and watches. Ian flips the jacket and throws the hat away and fuck, he can move! Mickey’s never really seen him dance, didn’t even know he can dance. He’d only ever really seen him shaking his ass at the goddamn club but that couldn’t be classified as actual dancing. Especially not with the way Ian’s moving now. He sort-of recognizes a few of the moves and figures he must have watched a bit of Michael at some point, but this has got to be a lot hotter!

And the crowd seems to agree. The first chorus of _Billie Jean_ finishes and then Ian starts moonwalking and Mickey’s cheering right along with everyone, because fuck! Just fuck! That was perfect!

Suddenly the music switches smoothly and the opening to _Jam_ starts blasting out of the Alibi’s newly instated stereo system (courtesy of the hipsters, who else?).  From there, it’s an insane few minutes of really cool dancing that has the whole Alibi cheering and singing along as Ian goes through MJ’s full array of moves while the best bits of _Bad, Smooth Criminal_ , and _Dangerous_ play; the moonwalk, the robot, the kick, the crotch-grab, the spin, the side slide, and, Mickey’s personal favorite, the circle slide. I mean that thing looked complicated as shit!

When he finally finishes up and bows grandly, sweat dripping from his brow, the whole Alibi is calling for an encore and Mickey can’t help but feel goddamn proud. Not that he needs any reminding, but Ian’s really something!

Tommy seems to agree as he fights his way over. “That’s some guy you’ve got there, Milkovich. I can see the appeal!”

Mickey flips him off as he hops down from the bar grabbing a half-full glass of something and downing it; he really doesn’t give a fuck about the rest of the dicks performing now that Ian’s done his bit he just wants to get out of here and get home. That act had him adjusting his jeans.  

He fights his way through the crowd to where Ian’s trying to escape from Kermit who’s explaining why his moonwalk was not quite right.

“Yeah, yeah, alright! We get it, Frogger. He ain’t Michael,” Mickey roars in the poor guy’s face, allowing Ian to escape. “Just shut the fuck up and have another drink. Oh, and maybe Frank needs some company,” he throws in for good measure turning around and following Ian.

“That was fucking good!” he tells the redhead when they’ve finally cleared the crowd. “I didn’t know you could do all that shit.”

Ian shrugs but Mickey can tell he’s pleased with himself. “Think I’ll win?”

“Ay, only way you lose is if this shit is fixed,” Mickey answers honestly. “Everyone fucking loved you.”

“How about you,” Ian grins slyly. “Did you like it?”

Mickey blushes and glances around quickly. “Tell you what, my dick fucking loved it. Seriously, where the fuck did you get those pants? I feel like they’ll burst if you sit down.”

“Ha,” Ian laughs, flinging an arm around Mickey’s shoulder. “They just might. Let’s not try that until we’re home, huh?”

“Yeah. This shit wasn’t so bad with you wearing clothes instead of those fucking gold shorts,” Mickey mutters in his ear. And it’s true. Everyone was looking at Ian tonight, but it was okay. They weren’t trying to get their fucking hands down his pants. He guesses it kinda helps that the Alibi isn’t full of closeted queens and that everyone here already knows that Ian is his and that he doesn’t fuck around. Mickey’s fingers twitch just remembering one of those hipsters a couple months ago who thought Ian had looked like easy prey. Let’s just say the fuck’s face is a lot uglier now than it used to be. Not that it wasn’t always ugly, fucking ZZ Top Reject! “Can we get the fuck outta here?”

“Oh, come on, Mickey! There’s just a few acts left,” Ian says, slipping behind the bar to track down some soda.

“Here you go, man,” Kev says, swooping over from the other side of the bar and clapping Ian on the shoulder. “That was something, Ian!

“Thanks Kev,” Ian grins. He takes the glass that Kev’s offering him and brings it to his lips just as a very familiar voice booms out from right in the middle of the crowd.

“…can top the performance that my progeny just put on, but I’ll tell you what: Frank Gallagher knows his way around a bottle. And as such, he’s learned a few tricks to go with it.”

It’s Frank, in middle of one of those incredibly self-aggrandizing speeches he’s got such a knack for.

“There he is, trying to take credit for your performance,” Kev groans, his eyes drooping in mock sleepiness.

Ian doesn’t look too bothered but adds “And I’m not even his.”

Mickey just shakes his head. He’s always up for a Frank-beating but Ian never seems too concerned by the old fuck and he’s not about to do it if the redhead doesn’t want him too. Whatever, maybe someday…

Right now, though, there’s actual cheering from the center of the crowd so Mickey hops back onto the bar and is shocked at what he sees; apparently, Frank does have a skill involving alcohol that doesn’t include drinking it. He’s currently  juggling four bottles without a problem and he’s almost surely drunk to boot.

Ian climbs up beside him and looks just as surprised. “I didn’t know he could do that shit.”

No one in the bar knew, by the sound of things. Frank adds a fifth bottle and keeps that going for a few more seconds before catching them all in his arms. Then, true to form, he pops open a bottle of the heavier stuff and starts guzzling as he bows.

“Thank you, thank you… Let it not be said that Frank Gallagher is without talent…”

“Fucking Frank…” Mickey mutters, shaking his head.

“Fucking Frank,” Ian agrees.

They hang about for a while, as the last act finishes up (one of the Ramirez brothers doing some goddamn card tricks) and then Kev’s voice booms out across the bar.

“Alright, the judges will be announcing the winner shortly.”

“I think we all know who won,” some chick slurs from the back of the bar. Everyone’s more than a little hammered at this point. The talent show’s been good for business.

Sveltlana walks up to Kev and shoves him out of the way, grabbing the mic out of his hand. “Okay, we are ready. By unanimous vote, winner of Alibi Talent show is gay Michael Jackson. Get over here, orange boy.”

Ian grins stupidly at Mickey before heading over to Svetlana to receive some stupid trophy and Mickey gets a nice view of his ass in those fucking tiny pants. Fuck. And that white undershirt is just sticking to his back, all fucking sweaty.

“Let’s hear it for the hottest MJ this side of the Chicago River!” Kev booms out, popping open a bottle of champagne and shooting it all over Ian as the buzzed bar goes nuts.

Fuck. And now he’s all wet to boot. They really need to get home.

Mickey doesn’t even care when Ian launches himself at him and presses a hard kiss to his right cheekbone.

The redhead’s whole face is flushed as he pulls back, champagne still dripping from the long hairs plastered to his forehead. “I fucking did it Mick. Five hundred bucks and free drinks. Not that I’ll use the second part…”

Mickey just stares at him, wondering how the fuck he’d gotten the hottest fucking guy in the world. He watches as a few droplets make their way steadily down Ian’s neck, over the dip between his collarbone, down the exposed bit of his chest until disappearing under the vertex of that fucking v-neck. He really needs to get that thing off already.

“Yeah,” he breathes, once they vanish. “You fucking did. Now lets get outta here so we can celebrate.”

Ian smiles, that big goofy grin that first made Mickey wonder, and slings an arm around his shoulder, dragging him out of the bar. He really is the luckiest guy on the fucking South Side.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :D


End file.
